


Dr. Watson's Fatigues

by BakerTumblings



Series: Dr. Watson's Flatmate [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advanced Education, Dancing, Dr. Watson is an Intensivist, Dr. Watson is very supportive of "his" nurses, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fundraising, Hungry like the Wolf, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Nurses & Nursing, Secrets, Sherlock can be a manipulative brat, Tattoos, Unexpected feels at the end, don't forget to tip your server, sappy and syrupy and fluffy with no real plot whatsoever, scholarship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 02:43:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4987039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Watson has been recruited by hospital administration to help out with a fundraiser in support of advanced education for nurses.  All that's required is to show up, walk around with trays of food or drink, collect a few tips, and socialise.  Certainly the evening will be predictable, fun, and safe.  Oh, and Sherlock Holmes will be attending with him.  Nothing could possibly go awry with this evening, yes?</p><p>While Sherlock is the one who may typically do the unexpected,  John may have a surprise or two of his own.  </p><p>++</p><p>Dr. John Watson, MD, is an Intensivist at the hospital, where his paths crossed with Sherlock Holmes.  They have cultivated a rather satisfying relationship on Baker Street, and seem to find mischief and adventures from time to time.  While this is a continuation of a series, it would stand well enough on its own.  John is a take charge kind of guy, which ends up being a character trait that gets called into play on occasion when dealing with his unpredictable partner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Invitation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Strawberryhiddleslock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strawberryhiddleslock/gifts).



John’s shift ended, on time, not a terrible day, and he made it home to the empty flat, with time to go for a run in the still-light out time of day.  He ran a shorter than usual 5 K, at a good clip none-the-less, and he was just finishing up in the shower when Sherlock returned home.

The door burst open and the shower curtain flew back with a _zzzzzztt!_ , and John stood unruffled, under the water, the cool air hitting his skin as Sherlock stood watching.

“Can I help you with something?” John asked, trying to be patient as the water sprayed in all directions, some of which definitely not into the tub.

“I need a cigarette.”  He was keyed up, eyes bright.

John rinsed a final time, shut off the water, shook his head in order to spray his flatmate just a bit more with whatever he could, knowing a little bit more wasn't going to make a difference.  Sherlock didn’t care, and John actually wasn’t sure if he’d even noticed.  He touched his pelvis, front and back checking for the presence of pockets, “I seem to have left them in my other trousers.”  He grabbed a towel, quickly brushing his face, hair, before stepping out.  “What are you on about?”

“I  _want_  a cigarette.”  He took a step back as John dried off, started talking about where he’d gone with Lestrade, a club of some sorts, relaxed atmosphere as they waited for a contact who never actually showed.  “Oi, it was all leather, glass, nice bar top.  And there was a smoking lounge, _God_ , it smelled so good.”

“So of course, you came home to see if I had any cigarettes on me in the shower.”

“No,” he said, slowly, as if explaining something to a primary student, “I came home so I didn’t stop at the store to pick any up.”

“So when you assault me in the shower asking for a fag, you aren’t actually asking me for one?”

"No.  And I didn't assault you.  Not yet," he grabbed the edge of the towel while John held fast to it.   John headed to the bedroom, stopped at the open closet.  He pulled a box down from the shelf, removed his med school hooded sweatshirt, held it up.

Sherlock stared at it, distaste evident.  “Absolutely not.”

“Not for tonight.”  John shook it out, held it up.  “I’ll be serving up drinks and food at the nursing scholarship fundraiser next week.  All tips collected go toward the fund.  What do you think?”

“Is it an ugly sweatshirt contest?  Because _that_  might win.”

“No, obviously.  It’s to promote advanced education, and the servers, and some of the nurses attending university, are supposed to wear gear or memorabilia from their colleges, or something to represent where they learned things from that made them what they are today.”  When Sherlock still looked unimpressed and non-understanding, John continued.  “So, _med school_.”

“So you’re hoping to generate tips?”  John nodded.  “With _that hideous thing_?”  He touched the sweatshirt with the tip of one finger.  “No.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Not helpful, you realise.”

Sherlock looked him square in the eye.  “Sometimes, you’re just another pretty face, you know?  Think about it.”  Sherlock turned to John’s side of the closet, reaching long arms to the rear.  He pulled out John’s army boots.  “Fatigues, camo, dog tags.  Tight tee shirt.  Boots.”  When John’s eyes narrowed in confusion, he continued.   “You learned things in the military, served your country a couple of tours, practiced medicine.  It qualifies.”

John shrugged as if considering it, turned to the closet again.  “I guess,” he said, still sounding unsure.

“John.  Let me lay this out for you.”  He was at his peak of arrogance, condescending and short tempered.  “It’s a fund raiser.  You’re going to be strutting your stuff for money.  It’s obvious this will gather much more attention, and appeal, than a university sweatshirt.”  He clipped the final syllables of the word as if that would somehow convey more distaste.  “And is this a contest?  You know, where whoever raises the most money wins something?”

“Of course.”

“Fatigues, then.  Trust me, you’ll win.  Make sure the tee shirt is tight.”  Dropping the army boots, he reached out, pinched at John’s pectoral muscle, ending up holding John’s pink puckered nipple between his thumb and finger.  “And get dressed early, because the last thing I’m looking to have you do is head into a crowd of slightly crazed nurses unless you are thoroughly, sexually satisfied.  Since this was my idea,” he said, gesturing to the boots, “I get the only actual helping of Captain Watson that is being served that night.”

John sighed.  Oh, the things he was called on to help his flatmate with.  “Fine.  Be home before I have to leave, then.  And you’re welcome to come along if you want.  Some of the nurses want to meet you.  I expect a big donation from you.”

“Oh,” he said, voice a bit low, pleased that John hadn’t quite managed to get dressed yet as he pulled the towel away.  “I have something else that’s big, just for you.”

“I might have a donation of my own...”  John took Sherlock's collar as he stepped backward toward the bed leading Sherlock along with him.  

++

“John, we hear you’re serving at the nursing scholarship night?” he heard the moment he rounded the corner of the ICU from Linda, the charge nurse.  “You’re going!” Chloe echoed, obviously there was some excitement about the event, and momentum, judging by the conversation that burst forth, was building.

Word had traveled fast, as he had just dropped off the official paperwork that morning, with his work history for introductory purposes.  There were some additional points of interest, should he care to have filled them out, trivia about his background or interests.  He initially thought he would just leave it blank, let the chips fall where they may, then had a bit of inspiration, added some creativity to his profile, hoping it would come together well.  One of the items was a few of his favorite songs, as apparently the docs would be introduced by the DJ, who wanted a few options for some entrance music.  

“I am.”  John eyed the bank of cardiac monitors, silenced an artifact alarm.  “You guys’re going then?”

“Seriously?  Wouldn’t miss it.”  Chloe explained that last year’s rather tame launching of the new project promised to be much more fun this year.  As one of the scholarship candidates, she said she was hoping for one of the big ones.  “ICU has two tables reserved, if you want to join us.”  One of the other nurses chimed in then, echoing her request for John to be seated with them.  “And you can bring a guest, if you want.  A few of us are.”

“We’ll take care of you.”  This said with a wink.  _God,_ John thought to himself _, this bunch might be a riot in the right setting with opportunity to blow off some steam._ He was reminded of Afghanistan, when the hospital staff got that rare occasion to socialise for a good time.  Rowdy?  Occasionally.  Out of hand?  It certainly had the potential to be, based on what he recalled from his deployments.  

“Oh, you should absolutely,” one of the other nurses chimed in.  “It should be fun.”

John had logged into the workstation at the desk as they talked, and finally glanced around, showing a slight hesitation.  “I’m not sure he’s ready for the lot of you all.  Particularly if there’s an open bar.”  If anyone was surprised at the pronoun choice, John couldn’t tell, not that he particularly cared one way or another.  “We’ll see.”  

One of the other nurses came over, carrying an armful of supplies and wearing a big smile.  “It’s going to be a big night for you, John.  A golden ticket kind of a night.”

A few of the others agreed, vaguely, and John pondered exactly how much ‘up to no good’ they were.  “You went last year?”

“Yes, of course,” one of the others said.  “Testing the waters last year.  This year, pulling out some stops.”

“I think I’m concerned," he said, chuckling.  "You'll all be on your best behavior if I bring a guest?”  An alert came through John’s mobile, then, the A&E, and he rose. 

“Don’t worry. It’ll be great fun.  And we’ve got your back.”

If that comment was meant to be encouraging, the laughter that followed it was almost fear-inducing.

++


	2. The Main Event

The evening started with the docs and other non-nursing staff carrying trays, delivering beverages and food, collecting tips for the scholarship fund.   John found that he knew many of those in attendance, and it was actually nice to circulate the room, socialise, and support a program he actually found had great merit.  Arrivals were staggering in, and, if John had any clue from the popularity of the bar as well as the mixed drinks he was doling out, they would be staggering out as well.   Chloe and a few of the other ICU staff found John, tipping generously for both beverage and starters, and handed him a golden ticket.

The golden ticket, of which there were a small handful distributed, ended up being an invite to participate in the “Best Vein” competition.  The DJ summoned the lucky ones to the front of the room, amidst whooping and applause, really quite a welcome and great way to open the night.  The DJ introduced John and commented on the fatigues and his military status, speculating that John may be “packing heat” with a poorly veiled reference to a concealed weapon.  The ICU stood, cheered loudly, and John could only hope that the photos being taken were tasteful enough as he flexed his bicep at the direction - teasing and coercion, truth be told - of the DJ, and John started wishing for a stat page back to the hospital.  As he listened to others being introduced with also a hint of feistiness, he looked around to find Sherlock comfortably leaning against the wall along the room, watching John and chatting with a few people nearby.  John thought he had likely been there a while.  The eye contact they shared was nothing short of amused.  Sherlock, holding a drink, took a sip while John watched, discreetly sliding his tongue along the edge of the glass.   _Bloody tease_.

Earlier that evening, he had not, as previously threatened, arrived home in time to indulge in any sort of physical dalliance before leaving.  When John texted him that time was in short supply, the answer was only that he was working a case with Greg Lestrade, and would most decidedly take a rain check.  The text ended with a vague expression of hoping he'd not be too late, and would meet him at the event.

John ended up standing in a line along with other staff members, gripping a phlebotomy stick and listening to the opening lines of Uptown Funk, as Molly Hooper and the director of nursing inspected the veined arms.  John had eyed up the competition, and was not surprised to find himself given a consolation prize along with all but one, who had the muscles of a body-builder and the rope-like veins to match.  The non-winners were given a gift card for the coffee shop at the hospital, as the winner was crowned and trophied amidst brief but vigorous applause.  The DJ cued up a few moments of the Carly Simon song, “You’re so Vain.”  It was over in minutes, but ended up being quite a stimulating way to start off the evening.

Beverages flowed, and John carried a rather full tray to the tables from the ICU, so Sherlock met him there.  John introduced him to the ICU staff, who initially, at least, were well enough behaved.  As John walked away, muttering a quiet admonition to behave in Sherlock's ear as he told him that duty was calling, he was only mildly shocked when one of the nurses apparently turned to Sherlock and cooed, "So a few good stories about John, please?  Certainly you can enlighten us."  He walked away shaking his head, only mildly concerned.  He tried to ignore the laughter that occasionally broke out from the gathering there, but made sure to keep them as well hydrated and fed as he was able.  When John handed Sherlock a refill on his drink, he teased that he was working for tips, and at that point, Chloe - or one of them, John wasn’t sure who brought it up - suggested that surely he could do better than just put the donation in John's hand, to be more creative with the delivery. 

There was a sparkle in Sherlock’s eye as he looked to John for direction.

It seemed a long pause, in reality only a few seconds, until John finally gave a slight nod, smiling as he muttered, “No cameras,” then standing still while Sherlock rather nimbly folded the cash  _in his bloody teeth_  and then at the last minute used his fingers to tuck the note into John’s belt just over his hip bone, drawing out the waistband as he did so, never breaking eye contact.  A smattering of applause and further vocal encouragement abounded then, but most had missed the quick display and John returned to the food station to refill while Sherlock seemed rather kept in animated discussion at the table.  From across the room, John considered that Sherlock and the bunch of ICU nurses were alike - all unpredictable, the lot of them.  He only hoped that his reputation was not suffering greatly, and hoped, if it was, that there may be some new and possibly distracting material later in the evening yet tonight.  He hoped, anyway.

A plate of strawberries found their way into John’s hand, and he avoided the ICU, knowing that they were a bit too wound up to assure propriety.  The last thing he wanted to delve into was inappropriate oral fixations on strawberries dipped in dark chocolate.  He and Sherlock had had to humour them once, but he didn't want to push his luck.  Perhaps, John thought, he would consider that for later, private activities after they went home to their flat.  

A speaker got up then to discuss the awards, and one of the nurses shared a few of the more humorous moments she’d had lately, some of the nursing-specific things that generated the acknowledgement that truly the medical profession was darkly funny in its own right.  The hospital’s commitment to higher education, advanced nursing practice, and support of nursing in general, was delivered by the director of nursing, short and sweet, a few lighthearted jibes at the evening's events already.  Then, the DJ said, with a driving beated song playing, it was time for the docs to earn their keep for the night.

The DJ had them line up randomly, one of the faculty at his elbow making sure name was correct, and they were introduced.  There was a few measures of music, and John was the third to enter.  The room was loose, light hearted, both from just the benefit of an evening away from the bedside stress at the hospital and, in many cases, a slightly elevated blood alcohol level.  The first two servers who entered individually ahead of John had worked the room well, stopping at a few tables, requesting donations.  There is already a bit of levity and the laughter and warm lighting and an expectant readiness to have a good time however the evening unfolded.  John was counting on that to help him out presently.

The introduction for John waited for the music, a few seconds of “I knew you were Trouble when you walked in” and segued into a quick intro citing his education, military tours, and current role as intensivist, followed by an abridged and unsolicited version of John’s help with the sniper takedown months back at the hospital.  And the DJ then cued up OneRepublic's number, Counting Stars.  It wouldn’t have mattered what the actual song was, only that it was thumping, driving, appealing to a rather rowdy crowd looking for something to cheer about.  John wasn’t a shy person by nature, and although it had been a while since he’d been clubbing, it all came back in spades, the bump, grind, moving with the music and interacting with the crowd a bit.  He stopped a few times along the walkway through the room to hold out a hat for donations, turning big expressive eyes on his prey if needed until he got results.  He was grateful for the tight tee shirt recommendation, as it certainly didn't hurt matters any, and he was in relatively good shape overall.  It was also fortunate, he realised, that he had enough sense of rhythm that 'strutting his stuff,' as Sherlock had put it, went over pretty well, too.  It was never inappropriate, and all in good fun, as, grinning, he stopped in front of a few nurses, softened his look - or glared, as the case may have been a few times - holding out the hat he’d brought for that purpose, to collect notes or coins.  He made sure to stop at the table where administration was seated, considering that they had deep pockets and he wanted to make sure not to exclude those in charge.  The table was not only generous with collections but with appreciation.  By the time he reached the ICU table, the hat was rather full, but his nurses, John noticed, did not disappoint.  At his upward gesture with his arms, the ICU cheered and stood up to join him for a few moments of the song.  A few of them toasted him with their beverages, and he found their support empowering.

He found Sherlock’s eyes, wondering what his brilliant mind was doing or analyzing or critiquing, ah, no matter.  It was completely for a good cause.  And so, pleased with the response of the crowd so far, John pondered only a moment, then stepped up on an empty chair, ended up standing on the table to shake up the room.  He tapped his foot while the song drove home the beat, his fist pumping along with the clapping, and then a few catcalls began, everyone was standing, laughing, nothing out of control or out of hand, and John weaved up on the table while a few more lines of the song played.  The music was loud, the bass of the song vibrating through flesh and bone.  A few of the nurses grabbed some of the drinks out of the way, not to mention the few mobiles that were on the table, giving John room to step quickly down the length of the table, but there was time enough to feel a note shoved into his fatigues pocket along with a quick squeeze.  John hoped that was Sherlock, but couldn’t see as he was facing the other direction watching his feet, not eager to trip and take a plummet off the table or step on something crush-able.  He jumped down, worked the rest of the room, hands holding out bills that John gathered, trying to get an uttered thanks in as often as he could.  

He arrived at the treasurer table, the room behind him still rather loud even as they cued up the next doc’s introduction.  There at the table was where everything was going to be tallied, and John unloaded quite a bit from both pockets and hat.  He stood a moment there, catching his breath, and Sherlock appeared at his elbow with a bottle of water and a napkin.  He wiped his slightly sweaty brow, giving a warm, appreciative smile to Sherlock.  Sherlock had an appreciative look of his own, as he eyed John's brown hair, slightly mussed from the evening already, the bright eyes and easy smile.  And the tight tee shirt, Sherlock questioned his judgment about that, because it just fit so clingy, showing off bicep, deltoid, muscled neck, strong shoulders, showing off things about which he felt rather proprietary.  The shirt tapered into his camo fatigues, which clung where they needed to.  The dog tags, at the moment, were still and hung on the front of John's chest, but earlier, when he was moving to the beat of the song, working the crowd, they'd been doing a mesmerising dance of their own, and Sherlock knew he wasn't the only one who'd noticed how appealing and confident John was.  The rest of the servers were introduced as John and Sherlock stood on the periphery, watching, and a few of the docs had a bit of a "hook", handing out lanyards, pencils, stickers, or dressed in more outlandish outfits or a crazy hat.  One of the docs wore large, bear claw slippers that actually growled, which proved to be a real crowd pleaser as well.  There was the barest hint of a very sultry lap dance from one of the A&E docs, and the room kind of exploded with applause at that, too.

One last speaker had a few entertaining words, and the scholarship awards were handed out.  John was chuffed to find that Chloe from the ICU was awarded one of the big scholarships.  At the end of those award announcements, the DJ called the top-collecting eight docs to gather across the stage.  He was emphatic that all of them in attendance were winners, that the support of nursing scholarships from all of them had been greatly appreciated, but that they wanted to recognise those who'd raised the most.  With help from the coordinator, they announced the lower end of the scale first, asking the docs to take a few steps back from the front edge of the stage, leaving those still in the running to the forefront.  Finally, four became three became two, John and one other, the lap-dancer from the A&E.  They’d worked well together, knew each other well, and so the good-natured cajoling and fussing was a well-received act there at the front of the stage.

The DJ held up the paper, looked at the names, began to announce, “And the winner is...” and at that point, he cued up the song John had put on his form.  The other doc saw his grin, realised its meaning, and took a slight step back as the strains of Hungry like the Wolf by Duran Duran grew louder.  

 Chants of “Wat-SON!” emitted from his ICU tables, and the DJ confirmed that this years winner was indeed Dr. Watson.  

The DJ let the song play a moment, as arranged, then scaled back the music volume, and told the crowd that Dr. Watson had a surprise for them in honor of the nurses that evening.  “But,” the DJ continued, “Dr. Watson has requested the complete absence of any cameras in order to protect the integrity of this fundraising event.”  There was a burst of rowdy applause, and the DJ continued, “Mind the social media blackout, as well, please."  

A loud whistle sounded then from somewhere, and in short order, the DJ turned the song volume back up while John grabbed the hem of his tee shirt, untucking it - a  _Squee_! sounded from somewhere - while tucking his dog tags into the neckline.  Before he could talk himself out of it, he met Sherlock’s eye briefly, perhaps slightly apologetically, and turned around so that his back was facing the room.  He yanked the tee shirt off over his head to reveal a prominent wolf tattoo over the middle of his back that rose up toward his right shoulder.  Shaggy fur, one bright blue eye visible, the wolf was standing, with its head up, the slim outline of a moon behind an elevated wolf snout and solid body.  There was cheering, applause, overall loudness and entertained laughter and rather affirmative energy throughout the room.  A few whistles sounded, as well, and John was pretty sure he heard a howl from the general ICU direction as the song pounded on, thrumming.  John could completely feel Sherlock’s heated gaze in his peripheral vision, knew that to look over would be likely a rather poor idea, and chose instead to savour the brief moment.  He only waited a short while, his foot tapping to the music.

Without delay, he turned and took the microphone from the DJ, draping his tee shirt up over his torso, effectively covering up skin and scars, grateful there was no spotlight or anything equally prominent; he felt on display as it was.  “I saw a sign the other day that read ‘Be nice to nurses, they keep the doctors from killing you,’ and while I find it comical, not to mention at times probably true," and he paused there as many of the attendees cheered, "I want to remind you nurses that it goes the other way too:  Be nice to doctors, we are the ones who order the sedation and the restraints.”  Providers across the back of the room hollered then in support, and John looked over, grinning in acknowledgement.  The expression on Sherlock's face was priceless, John noted, risking a quick flick of the eyes in his direction.  They had certainly had a few encounters with those, both in the hospital and in their flat.   _Move on, Watson_ , he thought.

He waited for the noise to abate some.  “I wanted to add my appreciation for this event, in support of advanced nursing education.  Great job, and to those of you in university or headed there, don’t give up.”  He tucked the mic under an elbow as he briefly applauded, gesturing at the tables and crowd.  “I should add that collections tonight are over,” he said with a very large, and very charming grin, “This will be the only time _ever_ that I've collected money and taken my shirt off in the same night, and I want to reiterate that the two were completely unrelated."  The coordinator next to John pretended to search her pockets, generating a few additional laughs.  "Thanks for inviting me, and I hope to see you all - along with a bigger crowd, perhaps - next year."

The coordinator took the mic then, said, "Dr. Watson, perhaps you didn't realise that the prize for placing in the top three tonight is an automatic invite back next year?"  She smiled at John, then, and said, "Think you can come up with something next year to top this performance?"

John winked, grinned, and the DJ cued up a few seconds of Hungry Like the Wolf, while the applause crescendo-ed again.

Then the DJ, watching the crowd, faded in an Imagine Dragons song that John couldn't have put a name to, but very quickly the dance floor was inundated.  John, still holding his tee shirt, stepped down from the stage, and was immediately surrounded by a throng.  The ICU staff seemed to circle him protectively as conversation surged for some time.

“Quite a display, Dr. Watson,” a familiar voice sounded, low tones in his ear after a moment.  “I’d like to purchase a private showing later?”  John turned his head a bit to find Sherlock standing, smiling, eyes sparkling, with a note in his hand.

“Nope, sorry.  Not with rent money.”  Pulling the shirt back on, he continued, “And for you, later, _no charge_.”  He followed Sherlock back to the table, where minor applause broke out again, and they sat down.  Glasses clinked conspiratorily, and conversation was light-hearted.  John congratulated Chloe on the award, and she feigned a slight swoon as she congratulated him as well that he'd single-handedly stolen the entire evening.

“I noticed our designated server failed to deliver strawberries to the table.”  Sherlock stated, then, as he watched one of the other trays go by, a few of the participants still supplying food and beverage to close out the night.  “I think perhaps a conspiracy is afoot.”

“No foul play, sorry.”  John laughed then, “Just trying to keep anyone from making any obscene ...” the word trailed off as John looked up to see the CEO approaching the table to shake John’s hand.

“Nice job, Watson,” he said.  “Who knew when we hired you what you were capable of.  I trust you will save this sort of thing for off hours?”  There was a sparkle in his eye, but John heard the cautionary message anyway, as intended.  “A nice collection for advanced education, by the way, well done.”  He said hello to Sherlock, a few of the nurses sitting there, wandered away.

Sherlock leaned in, spoke low.  “Henna?”

“Of course.”

“I want to touch it.”

The low baritone of Sherlock’s words and inflection sent heat directly to John’s chest.  And lower.  “I want you to,” and he was pleased to see a similar lustful reaction on Sherlock’s face, briefly, until he swallowed hard, then relaxed.  “Later.”  There was a steady flow of very lighthearted well-wishers to the table, chatting with John, who made sure to include Sherlock, occasionally getting carried away on an aberrant topic, but not often.  He was very aware of Sherlock's gaze, however, as they sat.  After a while, it was just the two of them, and it seemed Sherlock was drifting, mind wandering, or somehow plotting to get into mischief.  John played his next card.

He leaned over, cleared his throat, and waited for Sherlock to focus completely on him.  “So, about the tattoo...”

Sherlock waited, grew slightly impatient, gestured for John to continue.

“That’s not the only one I got.”  John let his eyes meet Sherlock's, blazing, and thought perhaps it was ultimately a good thing they hadn't been able to meet at Baker Street before the evening.  "One for _them_ ," he breathed, "and one for _you_."

Their eyes met, John’s thoroughly amused, full of life and mischief, waiting for Sherlock to catch on, and Sherlock’s dilated slightly in arousal and his glance fell to John’s belt.  “Oh lord,” he breathed, “have mercy.”

John sipped from his water bottle as Sherlock attempted a recovery while Molly Hooper appeared at their table.

"Hi guys, John, I don't know if you heard yet, but I'm having an after party at my flat.  You both _must_ come," she insisted, a sweet smile on her face as she stood there.  "A bunch of the other doctors will be coming, too.  Please?"

Amused, John watched Sherlock's expression for the obvious signs that he was ready to return to Baker Street immediately, saw him ready to refuse so he touched Sherlock's arm in warning.  "That would be great, thanks.  We can swing by for a little, I'm sure."  Molly's smile was genuinely pleased, but Sherlock was clearly not thrilled.  "After this demonstration," John told him, carefully, "I probably should put in an appearance.  You know, to make sure I stay in everyone's good graces."  Molly was briefly distracted by one of the other nurses stopping to say hello and exchanging pleasantries.

"I don't do after parties," Sherlock said, leaning close to John's ear

"You do tonight.  It'll be worth it," he assured him, also quietly and directly, and let his eyes speak to the promises that would await.

“Congratulations on the win, John!” Molly said, then, considering the issue resolved.  “Sorry about the veins, it was so hard to pick... well, anyway.  Big win over all, though, you know.”  She eyed John’s shoulder now covered in his shirt.  “Didn’t realise you were into wolves.”

“Oh, they’re one of my favorite animals, they're _dangerous_.”  His hand was behind Sherlock’s chair, tapping him lightly on the back and he was pleased to see Sherlock’s expression of quiet approval even as he leaned into the touch.  “So, Sherlock and I will come by for a few minutes, then."

“Absolutely.”  She smiled then.  “You can meet Toby, my cat.  Not quite a wolf, of course, but fierce when he chooses to be.”

++

The gathering at Molly’s was well attended, with a handful of docs there, along with some of the administrators.   The gathering there was a bit more relaxed, punctuated with quite a bit of laughter.  John felt remarkably underdressed, there in his tight tee shirt and camo fatigues, but when he expressed that to Sherlock, he was assured quite explicitly that his attire was most becoming and that he was looking forward to removing it later.   John sipped a beer, standing with Sherlock, when the treasurer strolled over to say hello.  He felt Sherlock bristle a bit, but conversation was animated regarding something recently that had happened across town.  A few comments here and there reminded John that Sherlock wanted to get his hands on John and the new ink, and the crowd seemed to be leaving.  They prepared to leave, too, when the treasurer then turned back to Sherlock, touched him on the arm.

“Oh, I almost forgot.  I guess you already figured out, that second cheque you offered, wasn’t needed at all.  Actually, John would have won without either one of them.”  His pale eyes were wide, John noted, as she continued.  “But thank you for the donation anyway, it's for a good cause.  It was a nice offer, though.”

And with that she waved to them and left.

“Guess we’ll be heading out, too, then?” Sherlock said, as if nothing odd had just been dropped down in the middle of the room between them.

“Sure.”  John crossed his arms, not moving a muscle, while he watched Sherlock begin to fidget.  Watching the expressions roll across Sherlock’s face, John decided then, was something he would likely never get tired of doing.  It was as if seeing a whole conversation that ranged from ‘I think I’m in trouble’ to ‘perhaps John can be distracted’ to the intense expression that seemed indicative of 'how much of a lie can I get away with', to the look of resigned defeat that John was on to him and that there was no escape.  

John watched him carefully, waiting for Sherlock to cave in and crumble.  “It was nothing,” he said, trying to be dismissive.

“Apparently not.”  John thought of the wolf on his back, stalking, threatening, hunting.  “I’ll hear it now.  The truth.”  He watched Sherlock’s lips thin out.  “All of it.”

“Nothing major, of course.  I stopped at the treasurer's table, wrote out a cheque.  That’s all.”

“You realise that I am _on_ to your antics.  She said _either_ cheque...”

“Perhaps we could continue this on the way home?” Sherlock was rather aware that no one was listening, as only a few remained at Molly's, and they were across the room, completely oblivious.

“I’m not sure how I feel about that.  For all I know, you’ve arranged for us to be mugged or chased, or your brother will provide some inappropriate diversion, just to get you out of telling me the truth.”

He huffed out a breath, annoyed.  “I simply made an offer to write an additional bank draw to assure your win, that's all.  Nothing improper," he said, trying to move quickly on.  "Only the one cheque was needed, though.”

“You had that little faith in me that I needed help to win?”

“No, but... Sod it all, I wanted to make sure.”  He shrugged.  “Sorry.  I wasn’t sure how it was all going to come down.  And of course, had I known you were such a shameless trollop for tips, I wouldn't have bothered.”

“That _was_ your hand in my pocket, by the way?”

“Yes.”

John hedged a moment before speaking.  "Thanks for the offer.  Very nice, and I appreciate that you wanted to make sure that I won."  Their eyes met, held, and they exchanged smiles as they left Molly's.  John felt a bit of guilt over Sherlock getting caught doing such a nice thing.  He also knew he would really prefer that Sherlock never find out that John, also hoping to win, had started his funds for the evening with a cheque of his own.

++

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One final chapter remains: The reward for a job well done (and for sticking with the story) for the boys when they return to Baker Street. And a little bit of Sherlock's antics after that. I hope to have it completed in a week or so.
> 
> The music can be mentally rearranged to anything you would like it to be. I will sort of apologise that Hungry like the Wolf is from 1982. It is a great song, regardless, and, well... it's about a Wolf! I've been listening to Imagine Dragons while fine-tuning this chapter, and highly recommend the group.
> 
> Also, if you haven't already watched the show Fargo, I highly recommend it, from 2014, starring Martin Freeman. There's a wolf in the final episode from Season 1. He is fantastic (Martin, not the wolf, I mean. Although the wolf is very fierce looking and great symbolism for that final episode - no spoilers here!)


	3. Serving Up Dr. Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reward for sticking with the story and a cute anecdote from the hospital.
> 
> Or, Sherlock gets the final laugh.

John and Sherlock hailed a cab from Molly's after the fundraiser, and the trip back home was mostly silent.  As they neared the flat, John reached out a hand, touched, and minimally squeezed, Sherlock's knee.

"It's bloody killing you, isn't it?" John wanted to touch far more than Sherlock's knee.  God, he had been looking forward to this, the two of them, finally.

He sniffed, looked out the window, brushing John's hand away.  "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Bollocks."  John spoke quietly in the back of the cab.  "You want to know what it is.  And _where_ it is."  When Sherlock's jaw clenched, John knew he was on to something.  "And you're curious if it's henna like the wolf or permanent."

"Oh, it's _not_ permanent," Sherlock said quickly, and then realized he'd been played into agreeing.  Again.  

"So it _is_ what you're brooding about."  John was sympathetic, to a degree, as it had been a long night.  "Not much longer.  And you've been bloody fantastic so far tonight.  It'll be worth it, you know.   _Fulfilling_ , if you will."

He huffed and pursed his lips as the cab stopped at 221, and Sherlock exited the cab quickly, leaving no question as to whom would be paying the fare.  Nothing new, there, John watched the coat disappear up the steps to their flat.

John lagged behind just enough that Sherlock was already slouched in his chair when John entered.  He'd tossed his coat on the floor in the vicinity of the hooks in a blatant childlike act of petulance.  John stepped over it as he hung up his own coat, crossing the room to perch on the edge of the coffee table in front of Sherlock.  He tucked the dogtags inside the collar again, pulled the tee shirt up and over his head, then turned to allow Sherlock an unrestricted view of his back.  His warm fingers ran over the design lightly, outlining the ink, touching the wolf, the moon silhouette, landscape underneath.  He worked his way around slowly, admiring, almost caressing.

"How long will it last?"

"Depends on how quickly I exfoliate."  John couldn't help the chuckle.  "Seriously, that's what is on the paperwork.  10 days to 2 weeks, give or take."

"It's well done.  I thought it would be more brown, being henna."

"I think the process has gotten better, with better dyes, more black in it now."  John sat still, feeling the warmth of Sherlock's long fingers, tingling in spots as his touch grew firmer.

"Must have taken a while.  You did this today, obviously."

"Took about an hour, I had already decided on the image and had approved the design layout."  Sherlock's hand wrapped around under his right arm, sliding onto chest wall muscle, flicking at his already hard nipple.  John arched his back into Sherlock's touch, leaning his head back toward the warmth of Sherlock's neck.  Their faces came together, lips meeting temple.  The position was awkward as they leaned in, and John stood, then, facing Sherlock, wanting more.   _Much more_.  John breathed deeply, already throbbing with want.

"So, guess away."  Sherlock studied him, eyeing pelvis, legs, standing as well and stepping around, placing a hand on his bum as he (likely) just used the question as an excuse for touching.  "What do you think I'm capable of?"

"After tonight, I'm not about to underestimate you."  A smirk appeared, then, and Sherlock continued, "Standing on the tables in front of people who approve your paycheck," he finished the word with a harsh syllable, "is pretty gutsy.  The tattoo reveal, also gutsy."  He took a long step, his fingers coming to his mouth thoughtfully in curious anticipation as he contemplated John's body.

"You walk on the furniture often enough, thought I'd see how it felt."  John stood still while Sherlock acknowledged the jibe, then stared again at John, wondering.

"You're too private to let anyone do your bum or even lower abdomen.  Probably.  And clearly it's not above your waist," and even as he said that, he raised John's arms, carefully checking axilla and the inner sensitive upper arm to be absolutely certain.  Sherlock's hand stayed, and he pressed his face in close, tongue coming out to taste the sensitive skin and nuzzle the flesh, knowing John liked it.  He inhaled, enjoying.

"Calf, then.  Obviously."  

"And the image is...?"  John didn't admit he was right, Sherlock noticed, and his brows furrowed at that.

"Custom.  Not a stock design."  Sherlock was clearly uncertain, which pleased John.  Being predictable was boring, as Sherlock had said frequently as he investigated crime scenes, visited Scotland Yard, or even chose a meal off a menu.  "Something that takes your military background, your career as a doctor, perhaps something with your Scottish heritage."

"One way to tell," John said, the room warming as they verbally sparred, feeling his groin thicken further at Sherlock's speculation and study from behind him.  He could feel fingers again from time to time on the wolf image.  His hands went to his belt.

"Am I right?"

"Not telling.  Showing.  Is that your final answer?  That _non answer_?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and he sighed.  "Calf?"  John was quiet.  "Right calf, outside."  Sherlock's fingers touched his lips again as he considered.  "Rod of Asclepius."

In answer, John undid his belt, then bent to first rid himself of the boots, and soon stood before Sherlock in his grey pants.  Sherlock was disappointed to find that both of John's legs were unadorned.  " _John_."

"Next guess?"  And before an answer could be given, John angled up against Sherlock, lips reaching up to meet, kiss, press against him, his hands stealing into Sherlock's collar, thumbs then angling over and across his chest, pressing at nipples before undoing a few buttons.  

Sherlock stepped back, but smiling, and continued.  "Then I predict bum.  At least it will get the pants off you, so even if I'm wrong, I still _win_."  Sherlock cocked his head.  "Not a tramp stamp, off to the side perhaps, right cheek.  No, left cheek.  Dominant side."

Sherlock had moved to stand in front of him, their toes facing, and he plucked at the tags around John's neck, feeling the warm metal as it rested over John's sternum.  He lowered his head, tasting lip, then jawline before dropping to collarbone.  His hands slid around John's waist, and he shifted down the rounded slope under John's waistband, spreading a gap there for him to stretch his neck around John's shoulder to visualize John's lower back and finding it unmarked as well.

"So where is it?"  

"Come.  I'll show you."  John headed to the bedroom, expecting Sherlock to follow.  He hesitated, then, and said, "Oi, but hang up your damn coat first."  He stood still as Sherlock complied, then moved on.

John stood in the bedroom in just his pants while Sherlock disrobed, hanging up or folding items removed, tossing socks and pants aside.  He turned to John, hooked a finger in the waistband, removed the pants from John's body.  Sherlock pointed at the bed, focused, intent on solving this latest puzzle.  "Want a clue?" John offered, and Sherlock quickly and resolutely declined.  John sunk onto the bed and scooted up on his back.  Sherlock's eyes took in each section of skin, and he started again at John's head, inspecting.  He was on a mission, and John watched carefully in order to prevent unrecoverable frustration.  The room was getting warm though, in John's opinion, under such careful scrutiny.  Not much longer, he assured himself.  John tried to suppress a chuckle when Sherlock opened his mouth, checking for ink on the inside of John's lip as well as his tongue.

When John opened his mouth to speak, Sherlock touched his fingers to John's lips, almost aggressively silencing him, ignored John's offer to settle this.  He moved over, pushing John's form onto his stomach, continuing the skin study with John prone.  The wolf received a few more probing touches, as did the crease at John's arse, reaching forward to the sensitive skin of John's thighs, finding no discoveries.  

When Sherlock rocked back on his heels, breath huffing out, John knew it was time.  Sherlock's reward for good behaviour tonight.

"Bedside table drawer."

That gave Sherlock pause, as he angled his head in consternation.  "I need _lube_ to find it?   _Seriously_?"  He truly was incredulous, and John himself momentarily speechless.   "Good God, John, what have you done?"

"Not lube."  Laughter burst out then, he couldn't help it.  "Go ahead."

Sherlock paused long enough to consider deducing what John had planned, but curiosity got the better of him.  He pulled open the drawer to find a black light wand.  Mind already putting the pieces together, he sighed, whispered something that John heard as "Brilliant!"  He found the switch, turned it on.

"You'll need to kill the other light first," John advised, and shortly that was accomplished.  John felt the most exposed he'd been all night as Sherlock began at the top of his shoulders, moving systematically and methodically down his body, searching.  John was extremely pleased he was still laying on his stomach, it would make the discovery on his front more powerful.  John felt warm breath on the small of his back, lips touching, the barest hint of tongue, tasting.  His own breath hitching, he felt taut with energy and anxious for Sherlock's reaction.  For all Sherlock's typical impatience, he really was drawing this out admirably, John realised.

"Turn."  The tension in Sherlock's voice gave indications that Sherlock was also looking forward to resolution.

And so, when John did, he maintained a completely quiet, still pose, his legs apart slightly, chest relaxed, hands clasped and arms raised over his head. It was an interesting angle and lighting, Sherlock's face illuminated in the blue hued glow of the light wand, eyes darkly glittering and enthralled.  The first hint of the UV tattoo was visible over John's sternum and into his left chest.  The scientist and explorer in his partner took over, and he studied, eyes focused, concentration sharply honed as he brought the light forward and centered.  John knew what his chest looked like, and kept his eyes on Sherlock's rapt expression.

The flourescent glow of the anatomical heart on John's chest wall sat poised, simply outlined muscles, structures, and vessels.  Sherlock's fingers, reverently and lightly, touched the invisible ink pattern that was softly illuminated in the black light.  Warm lips came together as Sherlock leaned close, a heartfelt Sherlockian expression of _thank you_ , as the occasion drew out.  John reached out a hand, then, took the light so Sherlock could have both hands free.  A quick adjustment of the pillow allowed the light to shine on them as their bodies sought comfort and expression of sentiment with hands and lips and tongues.  It was real and needed and sweet, this tender moment.  With both hands, Sherlock took in all that had just been revealed using his fingers as well as his eyes.  John saw the deep appreciation for the image, the worship and analysis of the surprises of John's body.

"This is for me."  His eyes dragged from the ink to John's face.

"Yes."  John's words were quiet, somber.

There was highly charged silence, as John could see the great mind processing the gift.  The symbolism was not lost, just as John expected.  "Your heart."

"Yes."  John watched as Sherlock's eyes nearly closed as he lowered his face to John's chest, breathing in deeply, inhaling the essence of the faint sweat and scents of the evening, his lips brushing dry over the tattoo.  "No one else will ever get to see that.  Or have access to that part of me."

John drew Sherlock down on him, reveling in the feel of hard muscle, of solidness and strength pressed together.  Their lips met, warm, searching, sealing the sentiment, tongues meeting and tasting and promising.  He pushed upward, rolling them over then, his desire evident and pressing as it dug into Sherlock's belly.  "Now we might need that lube," he whispered, his hand reaching down between them.  

++

John rounded the corner into the ICU, where the mobile text had summoned him.  The patient presumed stable for transfer to a lower level of care had taken a turn, and John's presence was required to manage the situation.  Had he been less focused on the critical nature of the bedside emergency, he might have noticed that there may have been a different air there in the ICU, a back story, something _going on_ out of the ordinary.  But the agitated hypoxic patient required all of his attention, and he and the nurses spend the better part of an hour treating the patient, trying to prevent intubation.  John finally decided that there was no other option, and the ventilator is connected and things got a bit better overall.  As the dust settled and John answered a few more urgent pages via his mobile, one of the nurses stood nearby.  There was a verbal order slip at the ready, and she asked John to borrow his pen.  Something is a bit more amiss, he realized, but shrugged it off as he scanned the orders he'd just entered, ensuring all was complete.  He answered another page, calling another provider, and checked on the now-stable patient before continuing his rounds.  His pen was returned, and he paid it no attention until he was in the cafeteria and had pulled out his paper patient census, preparing a few notes.  The pen he'd been using, the one that had been returned to him, was not the one he'd started the day with, not one he'd ever seen before.  

There in his hand was a finely crafted, nicely weighted silver-grey writing instrument.  It was not an ordinary pen.  At the clicker end was a wolf head, throat raised in howl, with a clever blue eye.  The silhouette was regal, not ferocious, in muted grey-black tones with cream muzzle.  Truly a beautiful implement.  He smiled to himself, impressed that a minor deception had been carried out on him by such straight-forward, solid medical professionals, who typically couldn't resist the urge for immediate responsiveness.  Waiting was not one of the ICU team's strengths.

He returned to the ICU, needing to follow up on a few things anyway, and as he stood at the desk, he became aware that there were about five nurses watching him, directly and indirectly, with just barely concealed mirth.  "Everything okay, John?" one of them asked.  "You look a bit ... confused."

Clearly, he realised, they were all in on it, and he reached into his pocket, pulled out the pen.  Laughter erupted then, and within ten seconds, the entire nursing staff in the ICU was also holding up identical pens.

The director arrived then, from out of the back hallway where her office was.  She was also grinning, shaking his head just slightly at John, "So they managed to pull it off, then!  Well done."  In her lapel pocket was also one of the pens.  "No one expected you to not notice immediately."

John shared a grin with them.  "'Twas a bloody well timed distracting call."

"Exactly," she said.  "But once you left, we placed bets on when you'd be back."

There was an impressed expression on his face as he realised the pervasiveness of the trickery.

"Nicely done," John said then, nodding appreciatively.  "So who won the bet?"

Glances were exchanged, and it occurred to John that all was not entirely out in the open yet.

"Actually," Robbie, who was the charge nurse that day, spoke up then, "the person who bought the pens won the bet."  He stared at John, waiting.

John hesitated only a moment, and when the information was not forthcoming, he pressed.  "The person who bought..." he repeated, and then John realised, it fell into place, and he turned his head to scan the area, found whom he was now expecting to see.  Sherlock was leaning casually against the wall, long coat hanging open, waiting for John to spot him.  Laughter erupted among them all, just a bit, then, and Sherlock nodded, silently.  Before he turned to leave, he winked at John, heading for the exit of the unit, clamping a wolf pen firmly between his teeth.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Research indicates that the more typical American medical symbol Caduceus equates to the British Rod of Asclepius.
> 
> Thanks for finishing the story. This AU has been a wonderful dalliance for me, and it perhaps draws to an end here. Maybe one more....
> 
> Truly, a pen at any hospital can be a valuable item and is always at high risk to be borrowed but not always returned. My own wolf pen holds personal meaning for me, even more after writing this. It was too good not to craft it into this piece of John and Sherlock's adventures.
> 
> And if you're in school/university, heed John's advice - don't give up!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.
> 
> The Institute of Medicine (IOM) in 2010 released recommendations that 80% of RNs should have their BSN by 2020, and called for the advancement of many more to consider their MSN, FANP, PhD, or DNP degrees in order to further the profession. Good advice, and something doctors are very supportive of in general.
> 
> Based very loosely on an actual event in my local area. The actual phrase "put your cameras away, there is a social media blackout" was actually used. I still have palpitations. And I desperately wish there was video. Had there been a tight tee shirt, camo, boots, and/or dog tags, I think I might have spontaneously combusted.


End file.
